


Long Way Home

by BabalooBlue



Series: Take II [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-11 15:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2073573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabalooBlue/pseuds/BabalooBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And stars don’t care what you wish, and magic don’t make things better, and no one doesn’t get burned who sticks their hand in a fire.”<br/>— 	Terry Pratchett, Discworld</p><p>(Story and chapter titles borrowed from Long Way Home by Tom Waits. Thank you, Sir.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hat Full of Rain

She looked good. This was casual Cuddy. Casual Cuddy looked young, almost girly at times. He used to like casual Cuddy.

She looked good. It had been over two years, but she didn’t look it. It would be a few years until the years really began to show. 

Two years and thousands of miles – Wilson’s overly innocent expression told the story of how. 

The moment her eyes fell on him, he got up from the recliner. He would have to pass her on his way out, but that couldn’t be helped. 

“Cuddy.” He nodded in passing. 

“House…” she sounded a bit hesitant, as if she hadn’t expected him. He was out the door before he could change his mind. A quiet ‘whoosh’ saved his sanity for now. Slowly making his way down the corridor, he was tempted to look back. But he didn’t need confirmation that she was watching his retreat. He knew.

 

* * *

  

She had been sitting and talking with Wilson for over an hour before the sliding door spit her out again. An hour later and she looked two years older, at least. 

Without a word she sat down next to him, didn’t even look at him. 

His hands were busy twirling his cane. 

“Did he guilt you into talking to me? Did he pull the ‘last wish of a dying man’ card?” 

She shook her head. “No, he didn’t. And I’m not talking to you.” 

“And yet you sat down right here and not on the chairs down the corridor. Or the ones in the cafeteria, I hear they’re nice and comfy. I’m sure they also have acceptable chairs wherever you live now. You didn’t have to come all the way to Seattle to sit.” 

He didn’t have to look up from his hands to know her eyes had turned dark with irritation by now. 

They sat in silence for a while. 

“He fell asleep, he was tired. How long does he have?” 

So she had changed her mind about talking to him after all. Despite his earlier needling he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that. 

“He’s not dying. Not yet anyway. Not if I have anything to do with it.” 

She scoffed. “You’re still not God, House.” 

He shook his head slowly. “No, and I never was. But he’s hanging in there and according to his doctor he’s got a good chance. Last round of chemo finishes today; we’re out of here tomorrow if all goes well. At least for a while – until the resection.”   

He swallowed on his dry throat. “That’s if the tumor’s shrunk. We’ll find out in a few days.” 

She finally looked right at him. He dropped his eyes down to his feet again, cane still turning between both hands. 

“I can’t let him die, Cuddy. I can’t…” It just burst out of him, against his better judgment. 

She sighed and it was like all the antagonism had left her then. “I know, House. You’ve already done your part. I know that he refused treatment before. I’m not completely cut off from Princeton. People told me he had given up. And then you died. That should have killed him. But it didn’t. Were you playing the long game with this? Were you hoping he’d see sense on the road with you – wherever you went?” 

So she was still in there, the old Cuddy who knew just what he was up to, who could beat him at nearly every game he chose to play. And even if she couldn’t, at least she would give it a damn good shot. 

Instead of an answer, he finally put his cane down, ready to get up. “Want to go and grab a coffee? You look like you could use one.” 

The cafeteria was just like any other hospital cafeteria they had ever seen and therefore just like their old workplace. So they ended up with a takeout cup on a bench outside. 

It was one of those fall days that trick you into thinking it is still summer. He rolled his shoulders, closed his eyes and let his head fall back, face towards the sun. It felt like he hadn’t seen the sun in weeks. Come to think of it, he actually hadn’t. He’d been stuck inside with Wilson for what felt like an eternity. 

“Are we even allowed to sit this close? Or is this just a trick so you can call the cops on me?” 

“I’m pretty sure the restraining order became void when you died, House. And no, I won’t call the cops on you. I’m not here for you, I’m here to see Wilson.” 

He was going to ask her what she was doing having coffee with him then but thought better of it. 

“How’s Rachel?” 

He felt her tense up next to him. “Are you making small talk now, House? Never was your strong suit.” 

She must have seen something in his face, though, because when he turned to look at her then, she said, “Rachel is fine, House, just fine. She’s at my sister’s. And she still watches that horrible pirate cartoon when I’m not paying attention.”

He nodded. So there was hope for the kid after all.   

The silence that followed felt odd. They had never been silent with each other. Mostly they had argued and bickered. For a short while they had been a couple and attempted to talk couple things with each other. Until things fell apart. 

His hands felt for the packet of cigarettes in his pocket. Having stopped all those years ago after his infarction, he had felt an unstoppable urge two weeks ago. Well, not unstoppable. Everything was stoppable; you just had to know how. Except cancer, it seemed. And he hadn’t really wanted to stop that sudden yearning for a smoke. He needed the distraction; the short trips outside. His way of dealing with the stress. God, he wished he could light up now. Maybe not such a good move, though.                                                

House sighed. 

Why, Wilson, why did you have to ask her to come? But the answer was simple. 

“He wants you and me to make up.” 

It was out before he was sure that was what he wanted to say. 

“Is this what you want?” Her voice sounded edgy but not necessarily hostile. 

Startled, he realized she was just as confused by this situation as he was. Was this what he wanted? He didn’t know. 

“Until today I hadn’t even thought about it,” he finally admitted. “I have a one-track mind these days. Not much space for anything more than Wilson and his treatment, his white cell count, any side effects, whether he’s going to make it through the next day. Am I going to sleep tonight? Is he going to be in a lot of pain? Is he going to keep down the stuff they call food here? That’s as far as my thoughts go these days, I’m sorry.” 

He finally looked over at her. Her face had softened, she was looking into the distance, and not seeing anything it seemed. 

“One of the things I’ve always liked in you, and hated at the same time, House: You’re honest, even if it’s the worst thing you could say. I wasn’t sure whether I should come out or not. He didn’t tell me you were with him. But I kind of knew. This is Wilson, and you’re never far from where he is. Dead or not. But I knew you weren’t. Dead, I mean.” Her hands were playing with the zipper of her fleece. “People always thought Wilson was there to keep you out of trouble. I don’t think many realized you’re at least as much his guardian as he is yours.” 

She looked up and straight into his face. 

“So, are you taking your charge, um, home tomorrow?” 

Her question seemed to imply a lot more than what it seemed. 

“Huh, home.” Until this was over he didn’t think there was a home for either of them. Anywhere. Especially not him. “Yes, we’re heading back to the apartment tomorrow if they let Wilson out of here.”

 

* * *

 

Story and chapter titles borrowed from [Long Way Home](http://youtu.be/_m8fDhIPfT0) by Tom Waits. 


	2. Head Full of Lightning

By the time Cuddy made it back to her hotel, she had changed her plans back and forth three times. Damn the man and the bike he rode in on, it had only been a few hours and she was already re-arranging her life around his needs.

Except that he hadn’t said a word about needing or wanting anything. She had sprung into action on a reflex. This was House, and it seemed she was conditioned to run interference for him, support him – or do battle with him. The problem was, it had been so long, she couldn’t tell anymore which of the three she was supposed to do right now.

But one thing she knew; doing nothing didn’t seem to be an option. 

She had come to Seattle for Wilson, because he had asked to see her. But House didn’t look much better than Wilson. It wasn’t just that he had gotten older, everyone did. Even though he had tried to hide it, his leg was worse. She knew his gait intimately and it was clearly worse than the last time she had seen him. She wondered if his DIY surgery in the bathtub hadn’t done more damage than was obvious at the time. On the other hand, knowing House, he had spent every waking minute with Wilson ever since he had started treatment. Sleeping in that hospital recliner probably didn’t help. 

He seemed like a paler, lighter version of the House she had known, washed out somehow. But during the afternoon she had caught occasional glimpses of the old House. He was still in there, no doubt. 

She sat down on her hotel bed and rubbed her face. 

For a moment she considered calling her therapist. But then she dismissed that thought. They had worked through her anger a long time ago. This was not anger. This was confusion. 

“What the hell am I doing?” 

After a long shower to wash off the hospital smell, she called her sister. She needed to hear her daughter’s voice. Maybe that would help ground her again. 

Rachel had hundreds of things to tell her, starting from how she didn’t like the way her aunt made the tomato sauce for pasta – she really hoped Julia wasn’t listening in on the call – to how she had made a new friend already. Yes, this was what she had needed. She leaned back on her bed and listened to the chatter of a five-year-old from thousands of miles away. 

“Her name is Alex and she lives next door. She’s my friend, Mom. I helped her look for her cat yesterday. Because Belle ran away, so we’re trying to find her. We haven’t found her yet but we’re not giving up. Aunt Julia thinks we won’t find her. But I still have to help Alex because she’s my friend, right Mom?” 

“Yes, sweetie, you should help her. That’s what you do for your friends.”


	3. Roof Overhead

Saturday morning came and they did let them out. Wilson’s bag was packed and so was House’s. Two small bags, that’s all they had. House had effectively lived in the hospital during Wilson’s treatment, only returning to the apartment for a change of clothes on occasion. 

“Wilson, get your ass into gear. Or are you going to be sick one more time before we leave? You’ve got time for that while we’re waiting for our cab in the lobby.” 

Wilson looked up at him with resignation. 

“Leave me alone, just for once, House. I just don’t want to puke in the car, especially not someone else’s car. You know what they charge you for the cleaning.” 

“For cleaning what?” 

Cuddy had come in unnoticed by either of them. House frowned. He hadn’t expected her here today. He hadn’t expected to see her again at all after she had left the day before. 

Wilson looked from House to Cuddy and back. Clearly, he had no involvement here either. “Nice to see you again, Lisa. Didn’t you tell me yesterday you were going to visit with a friend in Portland for a few days? Or is this my chemo brain talking?” 

House cringed inwardly. Wilson was making light of something he’d been struggling with lately. He was relieved to see that Cuddy completely ignored the reference to Wilson’s occasional memory lapses. 

“I’m staying another day. I thought letting you on a motorbike in your condition wasn’t the best idea. Maybe you guys could use a taxi.” 

The bikes were long sold but House didn’t bother explaining. Not the time, not the place, not hers to know. So instead he grabbed the handles of the wheelchair Wilson secretly wouldn’t be too pissed using because he was still wobbly. As expected, Wilson made his usual token objection, which House ignored. 

“Get in, so we can get out of here.” 

When Cuddy wanted to grab the two bags from the bed, he took them out of her hand, though. “This is our third tour, we’ve got practice.” 

Seeing her surprised face, he added a quick ‘thanks’ and put the bags on Wilson’s lap. 

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting in Cuddy’s hire car. Wilson had been quiet all the way down to the parking lot, an indicator that while he looked perky enough, he was anything but. House could read the signs well by now. He just hoped they wouldn’t have to pull over during the short drive home. 

Home. He almost laughed out loud. 

Cuddy was still as efficient a driver as ever, he noted with a little sideward glance, even in unfamiliar surroundings. 

Arriving at their apartment block, House was about to fall into their usual routine – leave the bags down at the entrance, help Wilson upstairs and come back for the bags once he was settled on the couch – when Wilson asked Cuddy, “You’re coming up for a coffee, right?” 

Coffee? Was Wilson going to invite her for dinner next? And who was supposed to cook that? House wasn’t even sure they had much more than crackers and Wilson’s herbal teas in the apartment. Ginger and peppermint were the current favorites for easing his nausea. And Wilson certainly didn’t know how badly their kitchen was stocked. Well, if there was no coffee, there was no reason to stay any longer than absolutely necessary. Fine with him. 

“The elevator usually doesn’t work. Wonder why we’re paying rent at all. You can help us get the bags upstairs if you like.” 

Cuddy just shot him a look and took the bags. 

House wasn’t feeling kind today. He never felt particularly kind but today scored even higher than usual on the unkind scale. Why that should be so, he wasn’t sure. 

It took him all the way up to the second floor to figure it out. Facing their apartment door, it suddenly hit him why he was so annoyed and out of sorts. Why everything was wrong. It was Cuddy. He and Wilson had been alone for the last six months, they’d had no meaningful contact with anyone else, Dr. Webber excepted. When they weren’t in the hospital, they had their routine at home. They’d figured out a way of handling Wilson’s illness, and while far from perfect, their set up worked. 

And now, suddenly, it didn’t. 

Cuddy meant well, she always did. Her organizational skills were second to none, House knew this well. But at the moment she was an interference rather than an asset. Wilson was tired and weak but he wouldn’t admit it because he was Wilson, and there was a guest to entertain. And he knew that he himself was in no condition to carry Wilson’s slack. 

House watched as Wilson started rummaging through the contents of their kitchen, searching for something to offer Cuddy, and wondered not for the first time what it took to stop this man from trying to please everyone. Apparently not even cancer would quite do it. 

“Is he okay?” asked Cuddy who had moved quietly to House’s side. 

For a second he considered siding with Wilson and keeping up appearances but then thought better of it. Wilson’s health was more important than what Cuddy thought of them. Besides, she probably knew already. She had been a proper doctor once. 

“No. No, he’s not okay. If the last two rounds are anything to go by, he’s flying now because he’s finally out of the hospital but he’ll crash in a moment. He won’t admit it, of course. If you want to make yourself useful, get us that plastic basin from the bathroom and some washcloths from the shelf. I’ll take the bags into the bedroom and then we’ll get him settled.” 

Setting up the bedroom didn’t take long. House pulled the covers back and when he straightened up again, he was faced with Cuddy. 

“Where do you sleep, House? This place is tiny; there is no second bedroom. Please don’t tell me you sleep on that lumpy couch out there.” 

He sighed and eased down on the bed. “No, I sleep right here. Always on hand in case he needs me. I’m considering changing my name to Nightingale, at least I can be sure there’s no warrant out in that name.” 

A crash from the kitchen prevented further questions and made both hurry out to see what had gone wrong. 

They found Wilson leaning against the counter, one hand on his forehead and a sheepish look on his face. 

“Got dizzy for a moment…” he said and gestured at a broken mug and a puddle of still steaming something on the floor.

Add the dizziness to his peripheral neuropathy and it was clear that Wilson should not be near any kitchen implements or hot liquids right now. 

A quick exchange of looks with Cuddy, and House held out his arm towards Wilson. 

“Forget about it. Come on, bed time for you. I’ll make coffee for our esteemed guest after you’re settled. Bedroom’s all set up.” 

Leaving the room with Wilson on his arm – Cuddy was probably wondering who was leading whom here – he cast a look back and was relieved to see she was already tackling the spillage. He couldn’t see himself crawling around the kitchen floor trying to mop up whatever Wilson had spilled. 

“Will you two get on?” was Wilson’s last question before he sank back into the pillows House had piled up for him in the bed. “I don’t want you fighting…”

_No, we won’t fight. Don’t worry, I don’t have the energy to fight anyone today, not even Cuddy. Especially not Cuddy._  

“No? I thought that’s why you called her here – so we could finally have it out once and for all. Clear the air, you know.” 

Wilson seemed too tired to even appreciate his sarcasm today, so he left him to get some sleep. There was no point fussing now, he’d either puke his guts out in a few hours or he wouldn’t. Nothing House could do would change that. 

Normally he would stretch out on the couch now – a book, some nice tunes on his iPod, maybe a coffee if he was feeling tired. He wouldn’t be able to sleep yet, knowing that Wilson might call him shortly anyway. But he would appreciate the quiet and peace of their own space. 

In the past he had always needed some background noise to drown out whatever was going through his head, usually his latest case. Nowadays, at least right after they came back from hospital, he didn’t even turn on the TV. He had come to enjoy being on his own for a little while with no distractions, no nurses bustling around, no noises other than those of an old apartment building and a snoring Wilson in the next room. And maybe some Louis Armstrong. 

Peace. 

He wasn’t going to get any of that today, though. 

When he came back to the kitchen, Cuddy had not only cleaned the floor but also made fresh coffee. 

“Instant coffee?” she mocked, extending a mug in his direction. 

With a grunt, House accepted and sank onto one of the two chairs by the window. “Yes, it’s instant. And no, we had neither time nor the funds to worry about getting the latest espresso machine in here. I was a bit pre-occupied making sure Wilson didn’t change his mind.” He took a long sip and pulled a face. Yes, it was instant and it tasted like it. But it did the job most mornings when he was barely awake enough to think for himself, never mind two people. 

When he next opened his eyes, Cuddy had settled down across from him, her hands flat on the table. 

“I know, House. I’m only trying to lift your mood a bit. I can see you’re struggling.” Her voice was annoyingly calm, and he hated it. He hated that she still saw through him so easily. He hated her being here, in this dump they had hastily rented so they’d have some sort of base when Wilson wasn’t in hospital. 

“I’m not struggling. We get on fine. I know what to do when he comes home from chemo. I do still know how to be a doctor.” He knew he sounded defensive and hated that, too. 

Cuddy sighed. 

“That’s not what I meant. I know you’re managing. Everyone can _see_ you’re managing. I’m not talking about the logistics of all this. It’s obvious Wilson is in good hands. The best hands, if you ask him, I’m sure.” She paused as if to reconsider what she was about to say next. Maybe she thought they weren’t close enough anymore for this kind of talk. But then she decided to keep going. “I’m talking about something else. House, you’re barely holding it together. This is his last round, isn’t it? Resection next week if all goes well. Probably radiation afterwards. You’re worried it won’t go well, that they won’t be able to operate. That Wilson will decide this one shot was it and leave it at that.” 

So she thought she had him all figured out. Was he really that easy to read? 

“He won’t do that. I’ll get him to do another course,” he said under his breath, staring at the mug in his hand. Flowers and chickens? Who the hell created such ugly stuff? And worse, who would buy it? 

“But what if this time he won’t go for it? You’ve persuaded him once. Maybe he’ll decide that he’s done his duty as your friend and that’s it.”

He was tired. He didn’t need Cuddy playing devil’s advocate. And there was a lump in his throat that didn’t want to go away. He took another sip of coffee. 

“I don’t want him to die.” I can’t let him die. I can’t. 

Her hands were suddenly on his. His reflex was to pull away but he didn’t want to, not really. Those small, warm hands felt good around his. He was cold, and he was tired. 

“I know. But wanting something, no matter how much, doesn’t make it true. Look at us. We both wanted it to work, and we tried. I know you tried, House. Don’t scoff. It’s true, you did. It took me a while to see it, but I know you did. And I did, too. And yet, it didn’t work out.” 

She had a point. 

“Do you regret that we even tried?” He had to ask, mostly because he couldn’t answer the question himself. 

She stayed silent for a long time. Which was how he knew she told the truth when she finally did come up with an answer. He didn’t even need to look into her eyes to be able to tell. 

“No. I don’t. I’d always regret not trying. We had been dancing around each other for so long, I think we had to try.” 

There was a hint of bitterness in her voice, and something, something old and dark and lonely, tugged at him deep inside. “We never had a chance, did we?” 

“I thought about this a lot last night. Seeing you again really messed with me yesterday, House.” She smiled despite looking sad. “No, we didn’t. We didn’t give each other that chance.” 

The instant she said it, he knew it to be true. They hadn’t. 

“House, we both expected each other to fail. Not a good basis for a relationship. But I know that I don’t regret starting a relationship with you. Despite everything. I just wish we’d had half of what you two have.” 

“You don’t regret it, even though I wrecked your house and your life in the process?” he asked incredulously. That woman was mad. 

“It was only a house. It took me a while to see it, but you probably did me a favor. There was nowhere for me to go in Princeton. I had achieved everything I could. Now I’m building up a whole new hospital. I’ve got challenges again. And they don’t only consist of managing a crazy, volatile genius doctor.” 

Her smile took on that teasing quality, something he’d always liked. Looked like they were okay. But one thing was still bothering him. 

“What about Rachel? I ruined her life in Princeton…” 

Suddenly there it was again, that small warm hand on his.

“Kids are resilient. Rachel loves her new school, the adventure of making new friends. She started on the local soccer team last month and she wants a dog for her next birthday. And I think she may get one. She’s fine, House, perfectly fine. She asked after you a few times but I told her you had to move away for your job and since we had to move away too, well, we just can’t see each other anymore because we’re too far apart. She seems okay with that.” 

Cuddy got up to rinse her mug out at the sink. With her back to him she suggested, “Why don’t you get some sleep? You’re exhausted.” 

“I don’t need mothering, thanks. If I need a Jewish mother hen, I’ll go get Wilson.” 

She huffed and turned around, challenge sparking from her eyes. 

“Oh, but you can’t now, can you? Wilson is out of commission and you’re doing the mothering for a change. That’s working for Wilson but is it working for you? You look like you’re on your last legs. Let me help.” 

He sighed, “I just need sleep, is all. Stop sticking your oar in and let us get back to normal. Back to how things always work.” 

“But they don’t work how they always work. You need a break, House. Go and get some sleep. I’ll check on Wilson.” 

He remembered that Cuddy was at her best when she had something to take care of, things to organize, some sort of mess to clean up. Maybe it was time to just let her do what she was good at. 

Once he got settled on the couch, he noticed how tired he really was. It felt like he hadn’t slept in days. 

Cuddy pulled up the blankets over him and sat down on the armrest just behind his head. He now looked at her face upside down and wondered if that’s why her smile looked sad. All the distance, the coldness was gone. 

The last thing he felt was her hand on his shoulder. 

When he awoke, the apartment was quiet and smelled different than before. It was no longer stale and empty. 

And there was a note on the kitchen table. 

“House – Wilson is still asleep. I decided both of you need good food to get back into shape, so I had groceries delivered. You should be good for a few days now. I’ll be back on Friday. _Please_ call me if you have any news before that!!! C” 

He opened the fridge and found it fully stocked with lots of green and healthy stuff – for Wilson, he assumed. But Cuddy hadn’t forgotten him; there was a six-pack of beer and a big package from the deli down the block, too. House hoped it contained some of their fantastic smoked ham. 

And on the counter was a pot of chicken soup. He had to sit down or he would have collapsed laughing. Wilson would love this. Chicken soup! Cuddy had beaten him in the mothering stakes.


	4. I Stumbled in the Darkness

They spent the weekend sleeping, eating, watching stupid movies and sleeping a bit more.

Late Sunday night Wilson began to get nervous. Of course he didn't say a word. But it was obvious from the way he was banging pots and pans around in the kitchen, making way more noise than was necessary.

Finally, when he couldn't even hear the TV anymore, House had enough.

"Hey, Wilson? If you don't stop with that racket, I'll drive you to the clinic yourself, right now, and you can annoy the nurses there while you're waiting. The appointment isn't until 10am tomorrow, and no amount of banging is going to make time go any faster. It's also not going to change the outcome of the scan."

The answer was total silence from the kitchen.

Then a big bang. "Shit!"

"What the hell, Wilson?" House leaned against the doorframe, staring at what Wilson had achieved in the last half hour. He had pulled every single pot, pan and all the other kitchen implements out. There was not a free inch of counter space. Wilson was standing at the window, looking at his hands.

"It's not getting any better, House. My hands are still numb. It's not going away."

Oh, so that's what this was. Question was, why now. Wilson had had peripheral neuropathy since the very first course of chemo. House took a couple of steps into the kitchen. "Wilson, come on. Sit down. This isn't news. You've dealt with this many times with your patients. You know there's a good chance it'll get better. But it takes time. Give it a few weeks. Bring it up with Webber again tomorrow. You know the drugs currently used, anti-depressants, anti-convulsants – there are so many out there, one will work for you. I've also read of a few trials that look quite promising. Webber might be able to get you into one of those if nothing else works."

"You've read up on this?"

"Sure. Had a lot of time sitting around lately." House shrugged. "Also, someone had to make sure Webber is doing his job. You're a bit distracted with other things."

Wilson sat down heavily on a chair.

"I only wanted to clean all the kitchenware. I didn't do it when we moved in, never had the time."

"At 10 o'clock in the evening? Don't you think that can wait until tomorrow? Or maybe next week?"

"No." Wilson's voice was barely audible. "No, it can't. Because I may not be here next week."

Ah. This wasn't just about the neuropathy. The neuropathy wasn't new; that alone wouldn't freak Wilson out so much. Even though he had known this was going to happen, House wasn't sure if he was prepared for this conversation.

"Wilson," House sat down next to Wilson and said slowly and clearly, to make sure he got through to him, "if you're not here next week, then I won't give a crap about dirty pans."

Wilson's head snapped around and he was ready with a smart reply but House cut him off.

"But," he continued, "all this is beside the point because you'll be here next week to supervise me doing the clean up. That big ass scar you'll have in the center of your chest is going to hurt for a long time, so I'm guessing I'll be on kitchen duty for the foreseeable future."

"Why are you so sure this is going to work, House? I mean, I've told my patients the same thing so many times, even if I knew the chances of it going well were slim. But you don't do this reassuring cancer doc talk. So you must really believe this is going to work. Why? Where do you get that certainty? Wherever you get it from, I want some of it."

"Because I can't entertain the other possibility. I don't want to spend time worrying about things I can't change. It's pointless. Either the chemo worked or it didn't. If it didn't, and the tumor hasn't shrunk, then the next courses will."

And with that he had left the door wide open for Wilson to tell him that he wouldn't do any more chemo, just as Cuddy had hinted. He was an idiot.

But Wilson just sat there looking at him with doubt on his face. He wasn't going to tell him. Not tonight. Tonight he wanted reassurance.

So House said with more conviction than he felt, "We'll get this fixed, Wilson. Webber is the best; you've said it yourself. You picked him. I trust the man, because you do. Tomorrow will go okay. They'll open you up later in the week, take that shit out and sew you back up. You'll look like Frankenstein's monster when they're done with you, but you'll live."

He grinned at Wilson, hoping to pull him out of his funk with that last remark. If he told him how he really felt, Wilson would curl up into a ball in a corner of his room and not come out until the appointment tomorrow. If there was one thing House had learned over the last six months or so, it was that there were times when total honesty was not the way to go if he wanted Wilson to live. He was pretty sure Wilson had figured him out; they knew each other long enough. Tonight was one of the times when playing pretend would have to do.

House kept his eyes on Wilson, willing him to believe him. It was like a staring contest, one he couldn't afford to lose. Eventually, the tension in Wilson's shoulders eased a bit, and he thought he saw just a hint of a smile on his face.

"I heard the surgeon on Webber's team is a bit of a wiz with the needle. He can't be as bad as you, House, that's for sure. Your sutures always look like they let a five year old loose with Mommy's sewing box."


	5. I'd Trade It All Tomorrow

Monday morning came around and House wasn't sure who was more nervous, he or Wilson. The whole drive in the taxi Wilson had been drumming his fingers against the window, something that had annoyed the driver big time. One withering look from House had stopped him from saying anything, though. It was either the drumming or Wilson freaking out even more, and House knew which of those options he preferred.

Once at the hospital, Wilson was whisked away for labs and scans, leaving House with nothing to do but wait. Not exactly one of his strengths.

When he came back, Wilson was in a wheelchair, looking exhausted. And embarrassed, House realized. What was going on?

"Hey, getting tired already? What did they do to you, make you run on the treadmill? Thought this was just blood work and scans."

"It was. I stumbled on the way to the elevator and had to tell the nurse about the neuropathy. They insisted on a wheelchair for safety reasons."

It was also in his feet? Not unusual, but it was the first House heard of it.

"Why didn't you say?"

Wilson shrugged. "What's the point? Nothing you can do about it anyway. It's not painful. Same as my hands, they're just numb."

He should have said something, though. Even if it wasn't painful, it was dangerous. House sighed. But there was no point telling Wilson off now. He would only make things worse. Instead he grabbed the handles of the wheelchair from the nurse.

"I'll take it from here, thanks," he said to her. "So, where to now? We've got plenty of time until the meeting with Webber. Hungry?"

House knew there was no way Wilson would be hungry now, even though he had barely eaten a few spoons of cereal this morning without heaving. But there was no way in hell he was going to sit around waiting for their appointment, staring at a wall, or worse, watching Wilson stare at a wall. So they got coffee from the cafeteria, went outside and sat on the same bench he had sat on with Cuddy only a few days ago. But today wasn't quite as warm, and House was wondering if Wilson wasn't cold. He didn't dare ask, though, knowing he would probably not get an honest answer anyway.

"Are you coming with me to see Webber?"

"What kind of question is this, Wilson? Why else would I be sitting here with you? I could be at home, doing… at home things instead. Of course I'm coming." He glanced at Wilson. "Unless you don't want me to…"

"No, of course I do, House. That's not the point. You've done a lot of things recently you didn't need to. I thought maybe you were getting fed up with all this boring cancer shit."

Ha, throwing it back in his face. Cancer was boring; he hadn't changed his mind about that. But Wilson wasn't, even if the cancer was doing its best to change that.

"You're an idiot. What else have I got to do? It's not like I've got cases to solve or clinic duty to do."

Despite House's best intentions, Wilson looked guilty. Apparently Wilson's sarcasm detector had been temporarily disabled. Another side effect they should put on the chemo warning label, House thought. He couldn't care less about memory lapses and messed up kitchens but a constantly anxious and worried Wilson was hard to be with. Time to end this cancer lark. He needed his friend back.


	6. If I Should Tell You

In the end it turned out that Wilson needn't have worried – the tumor had shrunk, not much, but enough for Webber and his team to attempt a resection. Wilson's relief was palpable, and House was sure he wasn't even listening to all the details Webber was going through. No matter, they would get a copy of the results to take home and work through later. It was professional courtesy, Webber knew who his patient was, and House's identity probably was no secret, fake name or not. He wasn't exactly inconspicuous.

"And as for the neuropathy, I'm putting you on Effexor."

"You're going off label here?"

"No James, I'm not going off label. You're a cancer patient who is experiencing serious side effects from chemotherapy. You're depressed about some of these side effects. Anxiety and depression are not unusual in your situation."

Wilson shot House a look. "You told on me?"

House simply shrugged. He wasn't going to get into an argument with Wilson here.

"James, this isn't about telling on someone. Yes, we ran into each other while you were downstairs for your tests. You're experiencing side effects. Just because we know what those are and even expect some of them to occur, doesn't mean we can't do anything about them. Yes, the bigger goal is to get rid of the cancer but that doesn't mean we have to ignore everything else. Stop trying to be a hero and get that script filled on your way home. And now scoot; I've got other patients waiting. I'll see you on Friday morning, bright and early."

When they left Webber's office with arrangements made for the surgery, Wilson looked about five years younger, and there was a little smile on his face. It was the first real smile House had seen in quite some time. He didn't even seem to mind that House pushed his wheelchair. Truth be told, House didn't mind either, at least he had something to lean on and Wilson wouldn't see that he wasn't exactly in great shape himself.

He needn't have worried, though. Wilson was too caught up in tentative happiness to notice anything going on around him.

In the taxi on the way back, Wilson suddenly said, "Do you want to call Cuddy or do you want me to do it?"

"Why does either of us need to call her?"

"So she knows the results."

"Your surgery is Friday, Wilson. She said she'd be back Friday. I have no reason to call her."

Silently Wilson dug his phone out of his coat and made the call. House kept looking out of the window; trying not to listen to the one-sided conversation he had access to.

"Yes, it's good news, thanks. This isn't over by far but it's a start. Surgery is set for Friday morning."

"Yeah. I'd like that."

Like what?

Wilson cast a look across at House, and then said, "Yeah, he's okay with that."

"What did you just agree to? Gimme that phone!"

Cuddy at the other end sounded a little exasperated. "I asked him if you were okay with me waiting with you during his surgery."

"And why would I want that?

"House, I didn't ask if you wanted it. I asked if you were okay with it. I don't need your permission to be there."

He leaned his head against the window. "Then why ask?"

Cuddy sighed. "Forget it, House. I'll see you Friday."

Without a word, he chucked the phone at Wilson.

"Why do you always have to make things so complicated, House?"

"I'm not making things complicated. You are. Why did you ask her to come in the first place?" He had meant to ask this days ago.

"I wanted to see her. I thought I might not get another chance."

"Bullshit!"

"That's what you say. You don't know how I'm doing, how I feel. You don't want to talk about it, House. So don't complain if I do things that make no sense to you. I wanted to see her. End of story."

They didn't say another word to each other until they got home and Wilson was settled on the couch.

Even if Wilson probably thought the opposite, House hated fighting with him.

"I thought I'd never have to see her again."

House was in the kitchen, making coffee - proper coffee, courtesy of Cuddy.

"Okay, House, I get that. But you seemed to get on okay; you were talking to each other. Don't you think that's a good thing?"

"Yeah, we were talking," House handed him a mug. "How is that a good thing? I have nothing to say to her."

"Really?" What was left of Wilson's eyebrows was so high up if he'd still had all that hair they would've disappeared under it.

House sat down next to Wilson and lifted his leg up on the coffee table. Yes, they had gotten on better than he had expected. They had talked, but he knew there was still so much left unsaid. The more they saw of each other, the greater the likelihood it would all come up again.

"Yes, really. Do you think me telling her how embarrassed I am and that I'm sorry is going to make either of us feel better?"

"Maybe."

"No maybe. It'll only make both of us uncomfortable, that's all. This isn't about Cuddy or me. This whole thing is about you. It's about getting you through treatment, about getting rid of your cancer." And then he added quietly, "It's about not letting you die. Stop meddling, Wilson. It won't turn back time. Stop trying to fix the past."

"For someone so clever you can be really dense sometimes, House. This isn't about the past. Well, it is. Kind of. But I'm not trying to change it. This is about the future."

It took House a moment to see what Wilson was talking about. The old meddler had been trying to make sure House had a future, some way to return to the living. Even if Wilson might be gone – and even if today's news had been good, nothing was certain – he didn't want House to be cut off from everyone. Fixing things with Cuddy might help him if he decided to return to his old life. And it played nicely into Wilson's need for harmonious relationships all around.

"You should consider changing your last name to Buttinsky, you know that?"

When House got up to fetch another cup of coffee, he caught a grin on Wilson's face. There it was, that little smug one-sided lift of his lips that he hadn't seen in a long while. Wilson was back.


	7. Past The Party Lights

 

If House had thought Wilson was nervous on Monday before the results came in, he was mistaken. Friday morning, he was a bundle of nerves. It was just as well he wasn't allowed to eat anything before the surgery because nothing would've stayed down anyway.

He was so nervous he couldn't even button his shirt with his numb fingers. Cursing he came into the kitchen where House had escaped to have a cup of coffee and a slice of dry toast standing up at the counter.

"House, would you…?"

"Oh for God's sake, Wilson! Why can't you wear a t-shirt like normal people? Shut up, let me have breakfast in peace and go sit by the door until I'm done. I'll button your shirt before we go. But I'm not getting on my knees to tie your shoelaces, so you either wear something you can handle on your own or you go barefoot."

Apparently Cuddy had decided to play personal driver again because she showed up the moment House lugged Wilson's overnight bag out of the bedroom. He watched her and Wilson exchange a long hug before she turned around to him.

"Hi, House. Are you ready to go?"

He just nodded and walked out the door, leaving Wilson and his bag for Cuddy to worry about. The ride to the hospital passed in silence, at least on House's part. Wilson was sitting in front with Cuddy and wouldn't shut up. House tuned out of the conversation and tried to get a little more sleep because once they were at the hospital, they wouldn't have a minute on their own, as the wheels started turning.

With all the paperwork that needed to get done, it took a while until Wilson got into prep and the noise died down a bit. Cuddy had gone off to the cafeteria. House closed the curtain of the small cubicle to at least have an illusion of privacy. Wilson was settled on the bed, looking uncomfortable. There was no place for House to sit, so he leaned against the foot of the bed. They might not have another minute alone, some nurse or doctor was sure to barge in again any moment. But before House could open his mouth, Wilson did.

"Are you going to watch, House?"

Good question. He wasn't sure if he could.

"Do you want me to?"

"Why do you always have to answer a question with another question? Can't you just say what you want, just for once?"

House grinned. "The real question is why you want me to watch, if that is what you want. To make sure they do their job? I thought they were the best. There's nothing I could do, I'm officially dead, in case you've forgotten. Even if something goes wrong, do you think anyone's going to listen to some relative? Because that's what I am here now. So, why do you want me to watch, Wilson?"

Making Wilson uncomfortable before his big operation maybe wasn't such a great idea. But House really didn't know the answer to his question.

"I don't know." Wilson's voice was quiet. "I guess knowing you're out there, keeping an eye on things makes me feel safer. It's not rational. I know you can't do anything even if something does go wrong. Okay, I'm being irrational. I want you to watch. If you can."

Wilson had finally stopped staring at his hands and looked straight at House. He was afraid. House knew there was no way he would ever be able to say no to that look.

But he didn't get a chance to answer, as they were interrupted by a young nurse opening the curtains with a flourish.

"Good morning, Dr. Wilson. I'm here to remove any hair from the surgical site."

"There's no need for shaving, his voice is barely broken."

The girl flashed House an annoyed look. "Only doing my job. Besides, we don't shave – it increases the risk of infection. We use clippers instead."

She held up a pair of clippers and was about to open Wilson's gown when House intervened again.

"Seriously? The man's got barely any hair left on his head – how much do you think he's still got on his chest? Studies also show that if you want to avoid infection, your best bet is leaving what little hair is left right where it is."

The poor girl looked confused now. She was saved by Dr. Webber poking his head through the curtains.

"Ready, James? Everything okay?"

"Um, yes. I guess. Not sure there is any hair left to clip…" Wilson stuttered.

Webber threw a glance at the nurse. "What? Leave it, nurse; if we have to we'll remove it in the OR. If that's all, then I'll see you in a few minutes, James. Greg, we have an observation room ready, if you want to use it. Up to you. Gentlemen? I'll catch you later."

_Greg_? So much for staying under the radar, Webber knew full well who he was. Made sense if he offered him an observation room. Relatives normally would not want to see what was going on during surgery.

The nurse gave Wilson a light sedative and then left. "I'll be back in a few minutes to take you to the OR, Dr. Wilson."

"House?"

He took a deep breath.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yes, okay. I'll watch. I'll make sure they don't mess you up too badly. Not that there's much left of you to mess up, you look like crap already."

Wilson laughed. "Thanks. I guess."

The next twenty minutes flew by and then House was looking through a big pane of glass at a wide-eyed Wilson, surrounded by a surgical team and enough machines to outfit a spaceship. He looked scared, House thought. With good reason. This wasn't going to be a walk in the park. There were so many things that could go wrong in the next couple of hours. And Wilson was aware of all of them. There was a reason why doctors were said to be the worst patients. They knew all that could go wrong.

With more confidence than he actually felt, House nodded at Wilson one last time before he was fully under.

"Why are they going for an open resection? There are less invasive methods." Cuddy was back with coffee for House and tea for herself.

House sighed. "Because he's stage II and it's invaded the tissue around his thymus. Since they can't say for certain how far it's spread, they don't want to take any risks."

"Oh, he hadn't told me."

No, Wilson wouldn't tell unless asked directly. And Cuddy hadn't asked.

They were silent for a long time, watching proceedings in the next room. Webber's team was good, House had to give them that. They moved around Wilson like a troupe of ballet dancers, tuned in to each other to a degree House hadn't seen in a long time. Wilson was in good hands.

He turned around to Cuddy. "So you've got me in a room now, I'm awake and you know I won't leave because I won't leave him. What are you going to do with those two or three hours?"

"I don't know, I hadn't thought of it like that."

Well, if she didn't want to have that conversation he was also trying avoid, that was okay with him. He was happy not to talk. Since this could take a while, he put his feet up on a small corner table, repositioning his chair so that he could still see Wilson through the glass.

"House…"

"Hm?"

"Is your leg worse? I mean… it seems worse. What happened? Was it the, um, surgery?"

He had been remotely aware of Cuddy watching him for the last half hour or so. He also knew that he hadn't had the energy to minimize his limp, not today, not with Wilson there on the table.

" _The, um, surgery_? Are you making small talk now, Cuddy? Why don't you call it what it was? Moments of madness? Delusions of grandeur? Idiocy? Because that's what it was. Yes, it's worse. And yes, it's my own damn fault. And no, I still don't feel like talking about it."

Cuddy took a deep breath. Trying not to explode, he bet. "Can't we just talk like normal people, House? Can't I express my concern without getting my head ripped off? Civil conversation? Will any of that ever be possible again?"

Normal people? When had they ever been normal?

"What do you want, Cuddy? Don't you think that every time we talk, every time we meet, no matter how much we pretend things are normal, we'll be thinking about what happened? We'll be angry and annoyed, and embarrassed and sad and who knows what else. It'll always be there."

"Why do I feel like I'm the only one who wants to get things back to normal?"

House scoffed. "Normal? Are you delusional? There is no normal between us. Not anymore, I made sure of that."

Cuddy didn't reply. When he couldn't stand the silence anymore, he turned around to her. She was staring half into the distance. Noticing that he was no longer watching the surgery but her instead, she finally spoke.

"Do you regret trying, House? You never said the other day."

Years ago, he had thought about this long and hard and had come to a different result every time. But after the last few days, knowing what he knew now, years after the fact, the answer was suddenly easy.

"Yes."

Cuddy seemed stunned. "Why?"

He knew she wouldn't like his answer, so he explained: "I regret it because we both got hurt. And I knew that we would. I never wanted that. If I could turn back time, I would. Knowing what I know now, at that moment, when you came to my apartment, I'd tell you to leave. If I could change the past, I would. But I can't."

He turned back to the proceedings in the other room, knowing that he had probably just blown up whatever rudimentary bridge they had built over the last week or so.

The surgeon had now started to close Wilson's chest back up and Webber, easily recognizable by his neon green cap with skulls, took a few steps towards the observation room, holding a shallow basin with what he could only assume used to be Wilson's thymus.

"That's it, Greg", his voice came over the intercom, "we've got everything we could find. Your friend's been a model patient, no hiccups. I'll see you outside in a bit."

Webber could have been wearing a tutu for all House cared. Anyone with news like this could look however he wanted.


	8. There's a Light Up Ahead

 

According to Dr. Webber, the surgery on Wilson went as well as could be expected, and he was now in recovery. House had disappeared to have a coffee with Webber and no doubt discuss the next steps with him, leaving Cuddy to her own devices. So she went and sat with Wilson, after getting the okay from the ICU nurses.

How often had she sat at someone's hospital bed over the years, she wondered. Mostly it had been House's bed but Wilson had also been among the patients, as had her mother. No matter how often you had seen this and how used to this you thought you were, the person in the bed always appeared lost to you and you worried if they were ever going to wake up again.

She touched his hand, secretly checking his pulse. Nice and steady. As if the monitor hadn't told her that already. She nearly laughed. Some doctor you are, Lisa. Stop thinking about him as a patient. He's your friend, your sick friend.

She realized that she had trouble reconciling Wilson the doctor, Wilson her friend, with the patient in the bed right here. In Wilson's case his hair loss just added to the slightly scary picture. He looked so different from the last time she had seen him. And while the surgery had gone well, as far as anyone could tell, he was by no means out of the woods yet. But she knew that he was in good hands, the best. He had picked Webber himself. And there was House. There was always House.

"Patient still alive?" Speak of the devil, there he was.

"I think so, but you may want to check yourself, it's been a while since I've done any of this doctor stuff," she countered and got up to let House have the chair.

He went over to check the monitors, took a look at the charts and, apparently satisfied, turned towards Wilson. Carefully he lifted one side of the gown to look at the wound.

"That's going to leave one fuck-ugly scar. He'll hate it", he stated with a big grin on his face. "After all those years, he's finally caught up with me in the scar stakes."

They silently watched Wilson for a while.

When finally he started to move around a bit, still not quite awake, Cuddy thought it was time. Wilson was on his way; there was nothing more she could do here.

"House, I have to go. Tell Wilson I said not to get too pissed about the scar, he still looks better than you any day."

House smirked. "Tell him yourself next time you're in town."

This was surprising. It was as close to an invitation as she was going to get from House.

"I think I will," she said with a smile.

He got up to walk her to the door.

But with all that he had said between the lines, she needed to make sure before she left. "Are we okay, House?"

Those blue eyes were searching hers. God damn him, what was he looking for? There was no sub-text.

Finally he seemed to have made up his mind.

"Yeah, we're okay. As okay as we'll ever be, I guess. But I still don't get why you're not angry with me," he said and then took a deep breath, "because God knows, I'm angry with me."

House still expected her to be bitter and blame him. Because he couldn't forgive himself, he didn't expect her to either. He hadn't changed one bit.

She smiled. "Oh, I was, believe me. I was angry enough to want to see you go to prison. And when you did, it gave me no satisfaction at all. I was as hurt as you must've been when you drove your car into my house. Once I realized that, my anger was gone. Now I'm only sad.

"Because I see you with Wilson, and you're, you're… still House and Wilson but _you_ , you are so… gentle. You hold him, you look after him, you gave up your life for him. I'm sad because I wanted to have some of that with you, some of that intensity, this level of caring.

"I know you loved me and God knows I loved you. But my love was conditional. It depended on so many things. On you getting on with Rachel, on you staying clean, on us separating our private and work lives. This, what I see here, is not conditional. You don't care when Wilson drops a mug; you don't care when he forgets things. He's just Wilson to you. And he always will be. And now he'll have a big ass scar to match yours."

"Are you jealous?" he teased, but she could tell that his heart wasn't in it.

"No, I'm not jealous. Wilson was there long before we ever had anything meaningful. How could I be jealous?" Surprised she realized that was the truth. She got up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek.

"Bye, House." She crossed to the door and paused, her hand on the door knob.

"And I'm still not sorry that we tried."

And with that she walked out of the room, quietly closing the door behind her. House stood watching her for a moment until Wilson moved again and said something she couldn't hear anymore. Good, he was awake.

Just before she turned around the corner she looked back once more, seeing House now sitting by Wilson's bed, feeding him ice chips and laughing. He looked relieved; a lot of the tension seemed gone. There was a corresponding, if still weak, smile on Wilson's face.

They would be okay.


End file.
